I’m sleeping, surrounded by pillows and a warm doona. It feels like soft flowing hills. Outside, there are storms. They gather around the city like hungry seagulls. Greedy rumbles and too much water. Overflowing concrete barrios and broken stone roads and rubbish pile-ups by drains and nearby a town that will slide down the hill soon. The storms are vicious to the worlds built by the poor and the paint crumples to the floor. I command them to disperse. Send your water to the droughted dried up barely alive places. We have enough.
I sleep on clouds. The storms obey. They drift off, leaving a trail of restless, stressed out silver sleep behind them.